The Stepmother (22 page)

‘Oh my God!’ I gape at her. ‘That’s terrible.’

‘Well…’ Scarlett yawns again. ‘Yeah, it was. But at least she wasn’t paralysed. They thought she would be at first.’

I
am up first
, around six, unable to get back to sleep.

I keep thinking about the girl who was so badly hurt, this nanny, and why that had been hidden from me.

I make coffee and set the table for breakfast, and then I sit in the window and think about what to do.

I haven’t reached any proper conclusions when Scarlett staggers downstairs in her oversized T-shirt, looking exactly like the child she is.

‘You’re up early,’ I say, surprised. I pour her orange juice and make her sit. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Don’t send me back, Jeanie.’ She slumps at the table, and I push the cornflakes towards her.

‘Eat up. And why not?’

‘I don’t want to go back. Let me stay here.’

‘I don’t think your mum and dad will like that much, love.’

‘Who cares what they like?’ Her bottom lip juts out. ‘I don’t.’

‘You have to go back.’ I feel exhausted already, and the day hasn’t even begun. ‘You know that, Scarlett. It’s not up to me.’

She stares into her bowl.

‘Why don’t you want to go back?’ I ask gently.

‘Forget it,’ she mutters, and I realise I’ve blown it. No amount of pleading will make her tell me now, though I do try.

Something is troubling me badly.

H
aving promised
to let her know what train I put Scarlett on, I ignore Kaye’s increasingly hysterical texts. When she begins to demand that Scarlett call her, knowing Scarlett will refuse, I switch my phone off altogether – though the reception out here is rubbish at the best of times.

Trying to cheer Scarlett up, hoping to maybe eke out a bit of what’s making her so low, I suggest a quick walk round Ilam Park on the way to catch the train. It’s in the wrong direction, but it’s still early.

‘I’ll buy you a cream tea at the café.’ I give her a big smile – but she just jams on huge sunglasses and glowers out of the windscreen without answering.

Ilam
is in the dip of breathtakingly beautiful hills, and it’s a clear morning, the sky a forget-me-not blue – apart from one ominous cloud over the mountain of Thorpe Cloud. It may or may not be headed for us – it’s hard to tell.

We drive into the National Trust car park for Ilam Hall. It’s only eight thirty, and the place is quiet, almost deserted. A few staff bustle around the main courtyard, setting up for the day, but really we have the place almost to ourselves.

We make our way down through the terraced gardens and towards the River Manifold. Scarlett makes a point of staying at least five feet behind me most of the way, swiping at the trees with a bamboo stick she’s picked up.

As we walk I debate how best to broach the subject.

‘I do see how hard it is for you,’ I start eventually, as we near St Bertram’s bridge. ‘You probably don’t want to hear this, but I came from a broken home myself…’

‘No, I don’t want to hear,’ she says rudely, and I feel the heat in my face as we pass it, walking on to the next bridge.

‘Look, you’re not the first kid in the world who’s had to put up with a stepmother.’ I’m unable to control my sudden irritation.

‘Really?’ she says, even more rudely than before. ‘It’s not the stepmother I have a problem with,’ she continues.

‘Well good.’ I open the small gate to the bridge that leads to the fields, talking over my shoulder. ‘Because I do have your best interests at heart, whatever you may think. I’m concerned about you, Scarlett.’

‘Why don’t you just get lost, Jeanie?’ she snaps.

I stride over the bridge, biting back another retort. About to swing my leg over the stile at the end, the black cloud over Thorpe Cloud bursts.

The sudden deluge is so hard it stings my face.

Blinded by the rain, I concentrate on clambering over the slippery stile. On the other side, I turn to offer Scarlett a hand.

She’s not there. ‘Scarlett?’

She must have gone off in a strop – a ‘mard’, as they’d say locally.

Quickly I scan my surroundings.

A couple of ramblers cower beneath an oak on the other side of the river, brandishing a now soggy map. A woman in a red anorak with a black Labrador is walking up the far hill.

No Scarlett that I can see.

Cursing quietly, I make my way back over the stile, rain driving into my face and dripping horribly down my neck.

The most blood-curdling scream shatters the still air.

‘Scarlett?’

I rush over the bridge, slipping in my haste so that I go down hard on one knee. It’s agony, but I am up again immediately, dashing water from my face. ‘Scarlett?’ I’m yelling now at the top of my voice. ‘Where are you?’

Still no answer; no more screams.

I run along the riverbank for a few seconds. ‘Did you see her?’ I cry at the ramblers, but they just look stunned.

And then movement above me attracts my eye.

A dark, hooded male figure bolts, like a creature from Hades, out of the trees on the steep incline above the river, away and over the top of the hill.

‘Scarlett!’ I bellow, panicking, panicking—

And then a sodden figure launches itself into my arms, nearly knocking me down again. A sobbing Scarlett.

‘What happened?’ I ask frantically, trying to look at her face. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘He just grabbed me.’ She can hardly talk, she’s crying so hard. ‘I didn’t see him, and he grabbed me.’

‘Who did?’

‘This man. He came out of nowhere, and he held my collar tight, and he spat in my face.’

‘Spat?’ I can see red marks on her neck.

‘He said, “You better get your arse back to Malum House if you know what’s good for you”.’

Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit.

‘Okay, love, calm down.’ I stroke her damp hair. ‘Keep breathing slowly, okay?’

The ramblers are here now. ‘Are you okay?’ the woman wants to know, all twittery.

‘She’s fine thanks.’ I take a tissue from her to clean up Scarlett’s eye make-up a little; black rivulets stain her pretty face. ‘Let’s get into the dry.’

In the distance a motorbike fires up.

I lead Scarlett back to the car park, scanning the area desperately, but he’s gone. Whoever it was has vanished into the peaks.

What better place to hide?

Over the horizon the clouds come, thick and fast now. The beautiful day is quite spoiled.

I
nstead of going into Derby
, we go home, so I can sort Scarlett out and change myself. I run her a bath so she can warm up.

About to go upstairs, she pauses, foot on the first step. ‘How did he know where I live?’

‘Jump in the bath, love,’ I say. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

J
ust as she
’s getting dressed again and we’re preparing to leave, there’s a knock at the door.

Oh God. Do I answer – or do I hide?

Another insistent knock.

No choice. Heart thumping, I look through the old spyhole – and I open up.

There on my slate doorstep, hiding behind an upturned collar and a huge pair of shades even bigger than her daughter’s, is Kaye.

‘Are they here?’ She seems desperate.

‘Who?’ I am disingenuous.

‘Oh come on.’

‘You mean Scarlett?’

‘Yes, my baby.’ She looks over my shoulder into the dark little downstairs. ‘And Matthew of course.’

I
have
to invite Kaye in. And once she’s in she doesn’t hold back, especially when she learns that Scarlett’s still here – but Matthew is not.

‘I thought he’d be here too.’

‘Did you? Why?’

‘He’s being tracked.’

‘Tracked?’

‘Yes, and we guessed he’d come here.’

‘Who did?’ I’m baffled.

‘I wanted to warn you.’ Kaye ignores my question.

‘Warn me about what?’ I’m extremely uncomfortable that she’s in my home at all.

‘It’s too awful,’ she says. She smells of that nasty sickly scent and old cigarettes. ‘And I can’t talk about it now. Can you get Scarlett please?’ Her eyes are enormous saucers in her unmoving face. ‘I’ve been going out of my mind.’

I have to decide whether to tell her about the man at Ilam Park. If I don’t, I guess Scarlett will.

But I don’t think it’s Scarlett he wants; so it’s not relevant to Kaye.

‘She’s getting changed upstairs.’ I put my hand on her arm to stop her running up the stairs. ‘But look – warn me about what, Kaye? I don’t understand.’

‘I can’t say any more, so please don’t ask me.’ She looks… strange. Bewildered. ‘I have to protect Scarlett.’

‘From what?’ A feeling of nausea is washing over me. I’ve had hardly any sleep, the morning has been stressful in the extreme and I’m starting to feel quite peculiar.

‘I had to tell him that thing about your boy yesterday. I had to get him out of here.’

‘Hang on.’ I’m trying to compute this. ‘Get who out of here?’

‘Matthew of course.’

‘What do you mean you
had
to tell him?’

‘I made it up,’ she says dramatically. ‘I’m sorry, but it won’t harm him.’

‘You made it up? About Frankie stealing?’ My initial relief is overwhelmed by a huge flood of anger. ‘But why? What if Matthew’s gone to the police? What if Frankie gets in real trouble because of what you said…’

‘Oh he won’t call the cops.’ She’s dismissive. ‘He’s got too much to hide himself.’

‘Matthew has? Like what?’

‘Never mind. Please just let me get Scarlett.’

This time I don’t stop her. I let her thunder up the stairs in her leather leggings, her expensive poncho slung elegantly over the top. She’s still immaculate despite her trauma – and overdressed.

Listening to the squeak of the old boards and the murmur of voices above my head, exhaustion floods me. I don’t understand anything she’s said – except that she made up stuff about Frankie to get Matthew out of here.

Kaye reappears. ‘She’s just getting dressed, and then we’ll be off.’

‘Okay.’ I’ll be glad when they’re all gone. I contemplate offering her tea, and then I think she can go whistle.

Kaye leans on the edge of the table, long legs in front of her as I pour myself a stewed cup from the teapot, just for something to do. I know she’s about to launch into something. She does.

‘You know he was just using you, Jean. You were a convenient cover for…’

‘For what?’ I frown into my cup.

‘Oh never mind.’ Busily, she searches through her voluminous bag, producing a bag of apples, raisins, oatcakes – and finally her cigarettes.

‘What happened to the nanny, Kaye? The one that hurt her back?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ She fiddles with her cigarettes.

‘Because I do. It sounds awful…’

‘Scarlett!’ Kaye cries. ‘There you are!’

She holds out her arms, but Scarlett hardly rushes into them. Instead she drags herself down, not looking at her mother.

‘Darling!’ The woman grabs her daughter. ‘We need to get going. Say thank you to Jean.’

‘I don’t want to go back,’ Scarlett mutters.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Kaye smiles. ‘I’ve brought you some snacks, but we can stop at McDonalds on the way back as a treat.’

‘I don’t want McDonalds.’ She shoves the proffered apple away. ‘I want to stay with Jeanie.’

‘Don’t be so stupid, Scarlett.’ Kaye looks furious.

‘You’re always welcome, lovey,’ I tell the girl. ‘Wherever I am. Maybe just let’s plan it properly next time.’

Now is the time to tell Kaye about the stranger at Ilam. But Scarlett and I gaze at each other, and some kind of understanding passes between us. She’ll be safe once she’s out of here, I’m sure of it.

‘I’m sorry you’ve even been involved.’ Kaye stares at me, her blue eyes icy. She pushes a teary Scarlett out of the front door and turns to me again. ‘You – you didn’t know, did you?’

‘Know
what
?’ I feel tearful myself now with frustration. ‘For God’s sake…’

Kaye doesn’t answer but propels Scarlett towards her big white car, slowly driving down from where it must have been turning at the top of the hill.

Standing in the doorway, I can see Yassine behind the wheel. When I catch his eye he looks away.

Scarlett is dragging her heels, turning to talk to me. ‘Jeanie…’ Her mother clasps her arm tighter.

‘Thank you,’ Kaye says without looking at me, opening the back passenger door. ‘Get in, Scarlett.’

I sense Scarlett weighing up whether or not to make a big scene. In the end, she doesn’t – she just submits to her mother.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ I call. I catch my worried neighbour Ruth’s face at the window as they drive off, and I try to smile to reassure her.

I’m sure they don’t want trouble in this peaceful town.

W
hen Marlena’s
call finally comes – the call I’ve waited for all day – it brings no relief.

‘Jeanie. You need to look at this website.’ Marlena is terse, and I feel terrified as she tells me what to look up. ‘Try to stay calm.’

I do as I’m told, my fingers clumsy on the keyboard.

I hear Marlena talking to someone, giving her address. A cab perhaps.

On my screen a news site opens.

The front page: a story about a boat sinking in the Aegean, drowning thirty-six refugees.

‘What am I looking at?’ I ask, feeling a warped type of relief. I mean I feel terrible for them – but it’s not what I was expecting. ‘Is that what you’ve been working on?’

‘No. I mean, yes, something like that – but that’s not what I mean. Type Matthew’s name in the search section at the top.’

A chill envelops me. ‘Why?’

‘Just do it, Jean.’ Her voice is tight, clipped, matter of fact. I know it well enough to know it means bad news. ‘I am sorry, hon, but just do it.’

Hon.
The name Matthew always called me.

I type in his name next to the icon of the magnifying glass, misspelling it twice. Third time lucky.

A photo of Matthew comes up. A very serious face that says ‘trust me’: a publicity shot from his work, I think, judging from the dark suit and the corporate logo behind his head.

I read the text underneath the photo.